Michael's Angels
by castielthebabyinatrenchcoat
Summary: Castiel is level-headed when it comes to his callers; what with them suffering from suicidal thoughts and severe depression, it's necessary to be professional. But when he answers the phone to a particularly stubborn yet intriguing caller, all that Castiel once stood for suddenly seems less important. Ever heard of love at first hearing?
1. My name is Dean

_**"So answer me this," There's a rustling noise like someone moving around "How come I was a stone throw's away from offing myself five minutes ago and now I'm frickin' laughing?"**_

 _ **Castiel relaxes slightly "That's a good thing."**_

 _ **"Yeah, it is. But it doesn't make much sense."**_

* * *

Castiel isn't lonely. No, he's simply… _reserved_. That's all! Nothing wrong with that now, is there? It's not like he spends his time cooped up indoors watching daytime television and muttering to himself like an old kook. He goes out – all the time, in fact. He has – _what?_ – four, five, _six_ good friends who he sees on a regular basis. That's more than enough, he's positive.

"You spend more time talking to mentally insufficient _nutjobs_ than you do normal people!" His brother's always telling him.

"They're _not_ mentally insufficient, Gabriel." Is always his response "They're confused and lonely and often suffering from depression. There's a difference."

And _of course_ there's a difference. Castiel's seen hard times himself; he's laid back in bed, staring at the ceiling and wondered what the real purpose of his petty existence is. To crave something more – answers, _clarity_ – is far from insane. The people he talks to all have different stories and different takes on life; some of them cry down the line and ask him _why_ they should choose to stay when there's nothing and no one holding them back. Others point out that suffering through life for eighty odd years is just delaying the inevitable – that they should be able to decide when and how they leave this earth. He listens to all of them and tries to help where he can. It can be difficult, feeling helpless to those who are so _desperately_ seeking advice that Castiel _knows_ he can't possibly provide. Usually, they hang up before he gets to find out how it all ends. Sometimes, they thank him and say that their conversation has made them see sense. Those are his favourite kind of calls, of course. Rarely does it end with a strangled apology, followed by a newspaper article the next week, but he's always prepared for those situations.

"There was nothing you could have done," Balthazar had soothed him after his first bad call two years ago "Some people just can't be saved, Cas."

But he knew that was a lie. If there's a will, there's a way, after all. And if someone calls a suicide hotline, there must be a single _shred_ of will to live burrowed deep beneath the anguish and regret. It was all on him. He understood this; he used that piece of knowledge to better himself and prevent similar incidences from happening in the future.

There's been just five similar calls since that dreaded day.

"You planning on taking some time off anytime soon?" Anna asks him as he's busying himself in the office.

Just nine volunteers have been listed as official staff in the past year, Castiel being one of them. It doesn't mean he earns money, just that he gets his own room and turns up at least three times a week to take calls. It also gives him the right to work from home; Michael trusts him to act professionally outside his office at all times. That respect keeps him glowing with importance.

"I may take the week off Christmas. I haven't decided, yet."

Anna wraps herself around the door and sighs "You _may_ take it off? Try definitely _will_ take it off."

He can feel his patience wearing thin, but resists the urge to shoot her one of his signature glares "I meant what I said, Anna. I _may_ take the time off."

"You've worked Christmas the past two years, Castiel. Give yourself a break, for once!"

"I appreciate the concern, but I'm okay. I promise."

Her red hair is swept across her face this morning, shielding her wide, hazel eyes from view. It's a trick she's learnt since befriending Castiel; if he can see her eyes, he can read her expression "How are you and Gabriel doing?"

"Fine." He says "We're fine, thank you."

"Everything good since…" Castiel doesn't need to see her eyes to know what she's implying.

"Since?"

She straightens against the doorframe "Since everything. Kali, your father…"

The mention of his father is something that still strikes a bad chord in Castiel; he can feel his skin prickling at the memories of last Easter, when his brother had tried to take his own life. The kind of job – _service_ – that Castiel surrounds himself in unsurprisingly got people talking. If he deals with these kinds of people on a weekly basis, how did he not spot the signs with his own _brother?_

"I… I'm sorry, Castiel." Anna dips her head slightly "That was stupid of me to bring up. It hasn't be long, you must still be –"

"It's fine." _It's not, but okay – why make this more awkward?_ "I'm about to take calls, now. So…"

A small smile slips into place, just to ease the tension. It's a gesture Anna thankfully returns before slipping out the office "I'll see you at lunch, then."

The next few hours ultimate between dragging on and flying by; he gets three calls he's able to resolve within half an hour – mostly drunk and/or high but fairly easy to get through to. One lasts a little over an hour; the conversation consists of first coaxing a middle aged woman away from the drugs cabinet in her kitchen before discussing the topic of her children. She bursts into tears and goes onto describe her five year old daughter that just yesterday had made her a macaroni portrait including her dead husband. She thanks him profoundly before hanging up; Castiel's particularly satisfied at the end of that call.

Just before lunch, he has to go on a vicious rant to a couple of snivelling teenagers who turn out to be prank-calling. It makes him feel sick when people play such cruel jokes; they clearly don't understand the severity of suicide. It takes him 10 minutes to realize that the call has ended and that he's been wasting time talking to thin air.

"It's so disappointing," Alfie comments on Castiel's little story at lunch "How can people be so small-minded?"

He's a new recruit – just a kid who started volunteering about a month ago and scarcely leaves the building. Michael overlooks him as being someone who's bound to up sticks and leave after his first bad call, but Castiel has higher hopes.

There's suddenly a pair of legs sprawled across Castiel's lap, one he soon identifies as being Meg Master's "Some right _sickos_ out there, I'll tell ya now. If I ever get a call like that, there'll be hell to pay…"

"Unfortunately, we still have to be professional." Castiel sighs.

"So, you're telling me you _didn't_ give them shit for being a couple of jerk wads?" Jo intercepts.

" _Well_ …"

Meg is now grinning "Oh, Clarence! That's my boy."

He shoves her legs away, but can't help the small smile playing on his lips as he gets up to leave "Like I said, I _talked_ to them about respect and understanding. And their lack of either…"

The small cafeteria bursts into laughter and Castiel can't help but beam at the reassurance that he really _does_ have friends.

* * *

Yeah, he should have left about three hours ago, but Castiel never feels right about leaving the rest of them to the night shift. He could always tell Michael he's going to keep taking calls at home this evening and leave, but that would mean he'd have to work from his lounge _at night_. It's something he's never felt comfortable with; late night calls are always the trickiest. It's then that the callers become hysterical and _angrier_. Castiel hates the silence of his lonely apartment, with nothing but the drunken ramblings of despondent callers to keep him company.

So he'll stay – that's decided. Maybe just a few more hours; when Balthazar comes in (as he usually arrives early morning) he'll slip off unnoticed. It's not like he has an early shift at the Gas-N-Sip tomorrow. He'll get home, go to sleep and probably wake up in time to have a shower and make some food before going to work at three.

The phone rings, snapping him out of his head. His hand flies to receive the call before he has time to supress the oncoming yawn.

"He-e- _loow_ …" He stifles the sound with the back of his hand "Oh, s-so sorry!"

There's a beat of terrible silence before someone chuckles down the line "Not keeping you up, am I?"

The voice sounds cynical, tired, _wrecked_. Castiel can picture the man now – probably hauled up in the corner of some dusty bar, just finishing his tenth or so beer of the night.

"No… _no_! Apologies," He quickly mumbles "H-How can I help you, sir?"

"First," The voice sighs "Don't call me _sir_. Shouldn't you already _know_ how to help me, anyway?"

"Every person is different," He can feel himself frowning, but tries to keep the confusion out of his tone "I'm not going to say the same thing to a stressed single mother as I am to a depressed teenager, now am I?"

Another chuckle "Touché, touché…"

"So, explain your situation to me. Why are you calling?"

"Do I really have to answer that?"

" _Specifically,_ yes. Well, no… You don't _have_ to say anything, but it does help."

"You wanna know why I want to die?"

Castiel stiffens "Yes. Yes, I do."

"Kinky bastard, aren't you?" The voice sounds lighter, more relaxed – the words mingled with a soft smile.

"Um… I don't –"

"Forget it, dude. Just hit me!"

"Why would I want to _hit_ you?" He frowns once more "It's physically impossible for me to do so over the phone, anyway."

Silence. Heavy, deafening _silence_ "Are you for real?"

"E-Excuse me?"

"Are you a little slow, or something?"

Castiel sits up, clearing his throat and preparing for a difficult conversation "I hardly see how my physical capabilities have anything to do with –"

" _In the head_ , you idiot!" The voice is full-on _laughing_ now "Are you slow in the _head_? Geez…"

"My brain is functioning at the average rate, I can assure you."

"Man, man…" The laughter is now breathless "Tell me, are you a fucking _wizard_?"

That's a trick question, surely. Perhaps it's a pop culture reference? Usually, Castiel's lack of knowledge when it comes to celebrities and TV shows is never an issue when taking a call. People normally just get straight to it and tell him their life story.

"I don't understand that reference," He treads lightly "I'm just a human being baring no magical powers."

"So answer me _this_ ," There's a rustling noise like someone moving around "How come I was a stone throw's away from offing myself five minutes ago and now I'm frickin' laughing?"

Castiel relaxes slightly "That's a good thing."

"Yeah, it is. But it doesn't make much sense."

"Sometimes, all a person needs is to feel normal. Laughter is the best medicine, after all."

"Loada crap, but alright. What's next?"

"Well, like I said, it would be best if we discussed _why_ you were having these thoughts."

" _Thoughts?_ "

"Suicidal thoughts… It's okay to admit –"

"I'm not a whiny bitch!" The voice growls "I know what I am… how I _feel_ – I don't give a damn what you think about me! So why the hell would I not admit it?"

Castiel closes his eyes for a moment "And what are we admitting to?"

"You know what."

"Tell me."

The line crackles and his pulse flutters; something about this one is both parts frustrating _and_ intriguing. He wants – _needs_ – to help this man.

"I feel like shit." Simple, to the point. That's good "Every. Single. _Fucking_. Day."

"Why do you think that is?"

"I dunno."

"You must have an idea, maybe –"

"I was laughing before and now you want to get me all depressed again?!"

He smiles a little "As promising as moments like that _are_ , it's simply not enough to stop an ongoing problem. What happens when you stop laughing and you remember why you called?"

"Guess I'll overdose…" He sounds bitter "That'll teach Sammy a lesson."

"Who's Sammy?"

A moment's hesitation "Uh… _Sam_. Doesn't like being called Sammy; he'd string me up by my balls if he heard me saying that."

Castiel laughs once, more out of politeness "Is he a relative? A friend?"

"Brother. Yeah… uh, _younger_ brother."

"And why do you think overdosing would teach Sam a lesson, exactly?"

"Uh… don't… don't wanna talk about that anymore, sorry."

"There's no need to say sorry."

"What's your name, then?" The voice asks after a beat.

He gets that a lot; it seems people feel more comfortable when they can connect a voice to a name. Thought it's against company policy to give out personal information, Castiel is well-prepared for these moments.

"James. _Jimmy._ Call me whichever."

"Huh… you don't sound like a James, if you ask me."

"What do I sound like?"

"More of a… Tom, kinda guy."

Castiel shakes his head a little "I sound nothing like a Tom."

"Well, whaddya make of my voice? Go on, take a wild guess, _Jimmy_."

He sits back, spare hand clenched tightly in his lap "Paul."

" _Paul?!_ "

"Yes…"

"Paul's a family man, an office worker… Paul does the cooking on a Thursday and goes bowling with his mates every last Friday of the month, for Pete's sake!"

"W-Who's Pete?"

There's a sigh "It's _Dean._ If you really were wondering, my name is actually Dean."

Castiel unclenches his fist and tries to picture _Dean_. He's tough, defensive, stubborn… He probably wears jeans and ratty t-shirts. Maybe he has facial hair? That seems likely. And cold, dark eyes. Maybe he needs glasses but refuses to wear them and constantly squints…

"Tell me about how you're feeling, Dean."

There's a distant crash somewhere on the other line, following by the muffled sound of raised voices. Someone shouting _"Again?!"_ and another voice answering _"Fuck you!"_

Dean curses under his breath "Damn… I gotta go, Jimmy. Thanks for the weird-ass conversation."

"Dean, wait –" The line cuts off before he can finish.

It's not until he gets home early morning that he realizes how strange that call had been – verging on _unprofessional_ considering it mostly consisted of idle chatter. Castiel can't help but wonder how things turned out for Dean; perhaps it's the natural carer in him. Questions like _w_ _ho came crashing into the room?_ and _w_ _hy was his brother such a sensitive topic?_ float around his mind. A constant, nagging worry.

But, it's not like that kept him up all night or anything... right? _Right_.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed the first chapter. All reviewers will be featured in future chapters - faves and follows are also very much appreciated :)**


	2. Just another caller

**(Thanks to _guitardee_ for reviewing the last chapter! I'm glad you're looking forward to more!)**

 _ **"Ya know… you were much cooler before. None of this interrogation shit."**_

 _ **He wishes he could be more like a friend to his callers, sometimes. There's only so far you can go with compassion whilst asking them personal questions and trying to get to the bottom of their depression.**_

* * *

He puts the elusive _Dean_ out of his mind the next day. It's just past noon when he wakes up and trudges over to the bathroom, muscles aching and stomach growling. He jumps in the shower, shaves and stumbles out into the hallway, clutching the towel fastened around his waist.

The fridge is a depressing site; the shelves are practically empty save a quarter-full carton of milk and a packet of sliced ham. He has more luck with the bread bin, managing to scavenge a few stale slices and burning them to a crisp in the toaster – just how he likes it. The cubes of butter melt at first contact, dissolving to yellow puddles that moisten the bread; he can feel his stomach clenching with impatience at the mere sight of it all. He eats it too fast and ends up hiccupping on his return journey to the bathroom, where he brushes his teeth and gets changed into his pants, white shirt and blue vest. Then off to the Gas-N-Sip it is!

It's another long day of stacking boxes and signing off packages before he gets to crawl back to his apartment. Now, with no distraction to keep his mind focussed, his thoughts drift to _Michael's Angels._ He wonders if he should show his face this evening; he's not on the rota for today, but it's not like Michael turns away eager volunteers. In fact, most of his shifts start with him turning up out of the blue.

When the silent walls and lack of decent television get to his head, Castiel heads out after eight and takes the bus. Balthazar is back on shift and greets him with a hardy slap on the back.

"Ah, I missed you yesterday, Cas!" He smiles "Sorry about that. I just got to work without saying hello to anyone."

"It's fine, Balthazar. How were your calls?"

"Oh, good, good… yeah. Just a couple of nuisances, but mostly okay."

"That's good."

"And how about you? I heard you had _quite_ the call yesterday."

Castiel feels his heart beat quicken; does he know about Dean? Had someone caught on that Castiel had been _chatting_ with a caller and investigated? It's not like he did anything wrong; he didn't give out his real name or ask anything unprofessional. Then why is he worrying?

"Those blasted _teenagers_ ," Balthazar clarifies "What a couple of horrid little brats, ay?"

His muscles unclench slowly "Oh… yes. Yes, they were… quite unpleasant."

"I can imagine."

"Well," Castiel claps his hands together and offers a meek smile "I should get to work."

"Don't run yourself ragged, Cas." Balthazar rolls his eyes "I _know_ you're not meant to be on shift today, don't lie…"

"I never said I was! I'm just… passing the time."

He hums unconvincingly "That's a dangerous hobby you've got there, old pal."

Castiel doesn't breath another word, just watches Balthazar turn down the corridor and slip into his own office. Maybe he does have a point; isn't opting to talk to suicidal callers because you have _nothing else to do_ quite sick? That's something he'll have to consider in more depth later on.

* * *

Five days later, that familiar voice tickles his ear as he picks up the phone. It's rougher than last time – groggy and just a touch more slurred – but it's definitely him.

"Dean?" He feels silly addressing him in that way, like he might sound a little obsessive by remembering not only his _name_ but his _voice_ , too.

Luckily, Dean just laughs loud and clear before replying with "Jimmy? S'at you? Oh, man! What a… what a… _fuck_. Whadda surprise!"

 _Stick to the rules, this time. Remain professional._

"I think we need to discuss alcohol."

"Ya think?"

"You're intoxicated –"

"No shirt, Sherlock."

"– And I know that you think that that will help, but it won't."

Dean burps "'Scuse me… What the fuck you think you know about me, Jimmy?"

"Next to nothing. But that's beside the point. I know that drinking yourself stupid might seem like the only way to stop the pain, but that's only because you haven't tried looking anywhere else."

"Like?"

"Some people find a hobby can distract them from feeling down, but I don't recommend that here. I think you've got some issues you need to face head on, Dean."

" _Like_?"

A quick glance out the window tells him it's at least past nine, meaning that Dean's called twice at night. Why would that be?

"Do you work?"

"The fuck?"

" _Do you work_?"

"Alright, alright… _Yes_ , I work. 'M not some, some… _hobo_ or whatever."

"Okay, good. What does your job include?"

"I fix cars, sell scrap metal, flirt with the customers…"

Castiel smirks "That's lovely, but let's keep on task. It can be good to explore your kind of lifestyle."

"Well, that kinda _is_ my lifestyle, Jimmy! I fuck people. I fuck 'em here and there and _everywhere_."

"And why is that, Dean?"

"Cos sex is good? I dunno! _Fuck_ …"

"Have you ever been in a stable relationship?"

"Once. If by stable you mean fucking more than once a week and going out to the cinema and shit."

Castiel cringes slightly; he really isn't experienced in this area "That's not what I mean by stable, Dean. Which tells me that you _haven't_ been in that kind of relationship before."

"So?"

" _So_ , you may be lonely."

"Fuck you, Jimmy! I'm not _lonely_."

"We touched on the subject of your brother last time, but you felt uncomfortable. Why is that?"

"Ya know… you were much cooler before. None of this interrogation shit."

He wishes he could be more like a friend to his callers, sometimes. There's only so far you can go with compassion whilst asking them personal questions and trying to get to the bottom of their depression.

"Sorry, Dean. Sam means a lot to you?"

"Course… He's ma brother, after all. That kid means the goddamn world to me…"

"Have you ever told him this?"

"Shit, no! He hates my guts, Jimmy. Wants me fucking dead, probably."

"How come?"

"Said I didn't wanna talk about that crap!"

"Then what _do_ you want to talk about, Dean? Because sooner or later you're going to have to face the fact that such trivial matters as which name best suits your voice is _not_ going to help you feel any better. You're hurting; everyone who calls is _hurting_. Tell me _why_ you're hurting and maybe I can help you."

He breathes out shakily, awaiting Dean's response. He doesn't get one; the line cuts dead.

* * *

This isn't right; he shouldn't feel this awful. People have hung up on him more times that he can count and yet _now_ … he wants to curl up in a ball and cry. Okay, maybe not. But he wants to punish himself. No, no, no! That's not the solution, either. He wants to _apologise_. That's it. But that would involve Dean calling again and _somehow,_ he doubts he'll be so lucky.

Balthazar catches on almost immediately and pounces on him in the corridor "What's rattled your chain?"

"E-Excuse me?" He manages to stammer.

"You've been acting cold all week. Did you have a bad call?"

He swallows "No. No, I'm fine. Just –"

"Ah, ah, ah…" Hands bring him back against the wall as he tries to escape "Nice try. Now tell me the _truth_."

"I didn't have a bad call!"

"Liar."

"I swear –"

"Cas, please." His face is suddenly etched with concern – something of a surprise when it comes to Balthazar "We're friends. I know you. _Tell me the truth._ "

"I…" Balthazar's a _friend_ ; he'll understand "I think I may have been rude to a caller because I said some bad things and then they hung up on me which means _anything_ could have happened and that is much worse than a bad call because I know for a fact that it really was my fault this time!" And _breathe_ …

Balthazar blinks "What did you say?"

"I just… I told him that he was avoiding the problem. I said I couldn't possibly help things change if he didn't confide in me."

"And what's wrong with that?"

"It was a very _direct_ approach."

"How many times have you had this caller?"

"Just twice… but there's something about him, Balthazar. He sounds so… _broken_."

"Perks of the job, Cas. We get to meet _lovely_ people."

Castiel frowns "What if Dean hurt himself because of me?"

"Dean?"

"Oh!" There goes the blush "H-He gave me his name, that's all."

"So you're on a first name basis?"

"You know I never give out my true identity…"

"Jimmy again?"

"Of course."

"Huh. Well… what can I say, Cas? You didn't say anything unprofessional; who were you to know it would go that way?"

He sighs irritably "It's my _responsibility_ to read people and assess that kind of thing! I should have been able to see what kind of caller Dean was. I should have been more sensitive."

"Well, sometimes they just need a good _kick up as the arse._ There's no point in blaming yourself."

"But I do… I can't help it, I just do."

Balthazar rakes his fingers through a tuft of grey-blonde hair and tuts "It wasn't your fault, you know."

"Yes, you've said, but –"

"I don't mean _Dean_ ," He interjects "It _wasn't_ your fault, Cas."

Balthazar smiles sadly before retreating down the hallway, releasing his grip on Castiel's shoulders so that he slips down the wall slowly.

Sometimes, he strongly dislikes this whole _friendship_ malarkey; you get too close to people and they end up reading you like a book. Of course, they all know why Castiel suddenly started picking up twice the amount of shifts last year, working himself like a dog as if he's _obligated_ to do so. They can see the guilt thick and heavy, following him like a raincloud above his head. This job… it's _his way_ of making up for his own carelessness; if he can save one life with each call, he might just be forgiven for his selfish ways.

 _It's not your fault. It's not your fault. It's not your fault._

He pushes those thoughts away – the ultimate step to absolution is first knowing you've done wrong.

* * *

"Castiel?"

He looks up from his paper; it's always quiet around this hour, just before noon when the sky is still pale but the air is warm. It gives him time to indulge in the little things, such as reading the local paper (something he should really pay more attention to).

"Yes, Michael?"

The founder of _Michael's Angels_ – Michael himself – is a strange man. Castiel certainly wouldn't call him _cruel_ , but kind is also too flattering a term to describe him with. He's young – latish twenties at the most – with dark, brown hair and grey-green eyes. Handsome, Castiel thinks. Though he'd never mention it… He's the kind of man who's laughter lines just seem like wrinkles nowadays; a personal ambition that too-soon became a business that weighed him down along the way. He'll smile to his fellow volunteers (not that he really has the time to take calls _himself_ anymore) and say things like 'good job' and 'merry Christmas' when appropriate, but it all seems forced – _strained_. Castiel has the right mind to pity him, but thinks against it; no matter how distant or cold Michael may seem now and again, he's still the man who singlehandedly built this centre up from the ground from his own pocket. His years of hard work and undying passion for the cause have a lit a flame that is sure to burn into the distant future; he's given people who are scared and alone a chance to find comfort with the angels, even if they lack the fluffy wings and halos depicted in the movies.

"My office, please." He taps his chin once "Soon as you can."

Castiel scrapes back his chair but follows a good few steps behind. Something isn't right. Something is very, _very_ wrong. Michael never brings people into his office, only ever taps his chin like that when deep in thought and scarcely says _please_ so sparingly anymore.

He waves a hand at the wooden bench fixed to the far wall – one that looks _far_ too much like a naughty step for Castiel's liking "Uh, take a seat, Castiel."

He complies with a small, submissive nod.

"Right," Michael's crossed hands remind him of his Middle School Head Master "I think we need to talk about this _Dean_ fellow."

Castiel can feel his blood chill instantly, like cold water to the skin "Who?"

"Don't try me, Novak. I got a direct call yesterday afternoon by some man named _Dean_ specifically asking for someone called Jimmy."

He scratches at his wrists nervously "O-Oh?"

"And please don't deny the fact that your little _alias_ is Jimmy because I already know."

"What?! I mean… How?"

"You think I don't get enough letters addressing the anonymous _Jimmy_ from people who've been 'saved'?" Michael scoffs "And considering these letters date back to 2 years ago and you and _Balthazar_ are the only male permanent staff who've been around that long, the rest wasn't too difficult to work out."

Castiel dips his head "Well… then why are you so upset about Dean?"

"I'm upset about _Dean_ , Castiel because not only did he somehow find my _personal_ number and actually _ring_ me, but he also asked to speak to Jimmy because he wanted to say _sorry_."

"S-Sorry?"

"Why exactly am I getting calls like this, Castiel? What has this _Dean_ got to be sorry for? Did you go off task during his call? Did you _flirt_ with him?"

He can feel his cheeks burning "Wh-Wha –? No! Why would you –? I would never…"

"Everyone knows of your… _preferences_ , Castiel." Michael says with a sigh "But if you want to get emotionally attached to your callers, do it in your own time."

"We've only spoken twice! For no longer than ten minutes at a time… I promise, Michael. I-I'll transfer the call to someone else if he rings again, I'll –"

He stops at the raised hand of interjection "Please, don't bore me with your blabber. Just _get this sorted_. If he calls again, tell him there's _nothing_ to be sorry about. And for God's sake, remain professional!"

"Yes, Michael. I'm sorry… I shouldn't be so careless."

"It happens to the best of us, Castiel. So, I can only _imagine_ what happens to you."

Castiel clears his throat, raises from the bench and nods once – curt and stiff. Perhaps he takes back his earlier judgement; Michael _is_ cruel. He's cold-hearted and malicious and _cruel._

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed this chapter. All reviewers will be featured in future chapters - faves and follows are also very much appreciated :)**


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